The King is Dead
by Vampire-Badger
Summary: Sequel to Long Live the King. Haytham and Connor have just returned to their own world after spending two cursed centuries in a world where Washington was king, and a strange tea could transform people into animals. Now a piece of Eden has made Connor into a child again, and Haytham must learn to be his father. Meanwhile, rumors begin to spread, of werewolves, and stranger things..
1. Chapter 1

**Note: This is a sequel to another fic of mine (Long Live the King). I'm hoping this fic will still make sense without reading the prequel, but this is just full disclosure, I guess?**

 **-/-**

He could have put them down anywhere, and Haytham isn't quite sure how Desmond had known to send them _here_. Or maybe he hadn't meant to do it. Desmond hadn't seemed to be aiming at anything in particular, so maybe it's Haytham's own fond memories of the place that has brought them to the home Haytham had grown up in.

But here he is. Here _they_ are. Haytham looks down at the still sleeping toddler bundled in his arms. Connor had only very briefly regained consciousness after Desmond and the apple had undone… well, everything. Every bad thing that has ever happened to him. It's… a drastic step, and certainly not one that Haytham would have supported in any other circumstances. But these are not normal circumstances.

They've been through a lot. They've traveled to another universe, been cursed by a piece of Eden, and watched alternate versions of themselves drink a strange tea that eventually transformed them into animals. Haytham had spent nearly two hundred years looking after those two, while Connor… well, Connor had come to be in thrall to the apple. Under its control, he had visited every imaginable horror on the people around him. Eventually, Haytham and a group of twenty first century Assassins and Templars had been able to destroy the apple, free Connor, and return their other selves to human form.

But the trauma of remembering what he had done had nearly destroyed Connor.

This is the only way to wipe the stain of it all away, and give Connor the second chance he so desperately needs. Desmond—an Assassin, and the person that had destroyed the apple in the first place—had wiped Connor's memory, returned him to the form of a child, and sent Haytham and Connor back to their own world. Now Haytham faces the challenge of what to do next. How to care for a child he has never really known before.

Connor had seemed well enough during his brief brush with wakefulness. Mostly, though, he had just slept. Peacefully, with a smile on his face. Haytham has never seen Connor smile like that, and it gives him hope—there's no way of knowing for sure if Connor's memory has really been wiped until after he wakes up, of course. But Haytham doesn't think that a Connor who remembers would be able to smile with such innocence.

What to tell him when he wakes… now that is a question Haytham will need to answer sooner, rather than later.

But for now, the most pressing issue at hand is reclaiming the family home. Haytham has lived through more years than most men would ever dream of seeing, and he feels safe hazarding a guess at the current date. He thinks—although of course he has no way of knowing for certain, just now—that this is somewhere in the mid-1800s. Long after the house had fallen into the hands of others.

Although come to think of it, Haytham doesn't know whose hands those would be. The last he'd heard, his sister had decided to move back in. But she'll be long dead by now…

No matter. Haytham has made up his mind to reclaim that house, and so claim it he shall. The building, although it has been kept in admirable shape, does not look recently lived in. There is no light in the windows, and it lacks the warmth that a home should have. The warmth Haytham can feel so clearly in his earliest memories, a warmth he is suddenly determined to find again.

It does not occur to him, not until he has picked the lock on the back door and carried Connor inside, just how long he has been homeless, without somewhere safe to call his own. It is odd, to have one again after so long.

Connor is still fast asleep, so Haytham carries him up a flight of stairs, to where the bedrooms lie along a single long corridor, and then after a minute or so of hesitation, lays his son down in what had once been a guest bedroom. He pulls the blanket up to Connor's chin, and then just stands there for a moment. He's utterly at a loss for what to do next. Haytham hadn't been there for Connor when he was growing up the first time, and now he doesn't know what to _do_.

Eventually he goes away, and leaves Connor to sleep in peace. He has things to attend to, if he wants to ensure that the house stays a safe place for the two of them. That starts with education. Haytham roams the house, looking for context. Anything that will tell him the date, the legal owners of the house…. Anything. He is reluctant to leave the house until Connor wakes, but luckily he's able to find quite a bit of information within the house itself.

By the time night falls, Haytham has learned that the house is in the hands of Templars now, although they rarely use it—that they believed Haytham's father to have hidden something inside—that they had been unable to find whatever it was, and had put the house into the charge of an elderly caretaker and his wife until such time as Edward Kenway's secrets became a priority. He also learns the date. December, 1852.

It is an hour or so after dark when Haytham hears movement from upstairs, and then uncertain footsteps heading downward. He tries to swallow back a sudden surge of nerves mixed with genuine nausea, and has just about managed to calm himself by the time Connor appears in the doorway.

"Hello," Haytham says.

Connor doesn't answer. After a moment's indecision, Haytham comes around the side of the desk he's been working at and crouches in front of his son. "Do you remember what happened?"

Connor's eyes flick from Haytham's face to the room around them. He's frowning uncertainly.

"Connor," Haytham prods, gently enough.

Connor's eyes dart back to Haytham. "Not _Connor_ ," he says, almost petulantly, and Haytham remembers abruptly that Connor hadn't gotten that name until he was a teenager. And since he's forgotten everything, of course he wouldn't recognize it.

"I know you have another name," he says. "But Connor is just another one for you to use. And it's a little easier to say. Is that alright?"

Connor gives him a considering look. "Wanna be me," he says. "Not Connor…"

"You _are_ still you," Haytham assures him. He's trying not to think about how long Connor hadn't been himself, just a tool for the apple of Eden, forced into doing absolutely unspeakable things. But not anymore, _not anymore_. This is Connor's second chance. "You will always be yourself," Haytham assures his son. "No matter what you call yourself."

Connor smiles, and it's not big but it's genuine, like the sun coming out after rain. "Okay," he says. Haytham smiles back, just as genuinely.

"Thank you," he says. "Connor?"

Connor tilts his head, curious and listening.

"Do you remember how we came here? Or what happened before this?"

Connor frowns. "Bad," he says. "Bad happened?"

"Something bad," Haytham agrees weakly. "You have to be strong, alright? Can you do that?"

"Yes," Connor says, in a tiny voice.

"Your home is gone," Haytham says. "And mine is as well."

Connor's lip trembles, he looks like he's about to cry. "No _'member_ ," he says. "No home?"

He doesn't react as Haytham sits in front of him, doesn't resists when Haytham pulls him onto his lap. "Not the home you remember, no," he says. "But I'd like you to think of this as your home now."

"Why?" Connor asks.

"Because I am your father," Haytham says. "And my most important job from now on is to make sure you have a safe place to live. Wherever you are, as long as I'm there too, you will have a home."

"You're my home?" Connor asks.

"I suppose so," Haytham says. "Yes."

"Father?" Connor says. His voice quavers. "Is Mother…?"

Of course he would have forgotten that too. So Haytham tells him what happened, in the gentlest possible terms. And Connor learns, once again, that his mother is dead.

-/-

Evie is fast asleep, curled up in bed and buried under a thick layer of blankets. It's cold out, with frost creeping its way up the windows and the wind whistling through the trees in Grandma's front yard. But here, safe in her own bed, Evie is warm and happy and not at all worried about the creeping, whistling cold outside her window.

"Evie!"

Jacob almost _shouts_ her name, right in her ear, and Evie comes awake with a jerk. "Jacob!" she hisses, and kicks out blindly at her brother. It doesn't do anything but get her feet tangled up hopelessly in the blankets, and suddenly instead of feeling warm and happy, Evie is cross and chilly. She glares at Jacob in the dark.

"Hi!"

He's only four minutes littler than Evie, they're both five, but somehow Jacob has always seemed so much _younger_. Right now, Evie can hear him jumping up and down, way too excited for this late at night.

"It's bedtime, Jacob," Evie tells him.

"Not tired!" he chirps.

"Go to _bed_."

"I was in bed." Jacob hops up onto hers. "Then I had a funny dream."

Evie groans. "Jacob…"

"Do you want to hear about my funny dream?"

He's going to tell her anyway. Evie doesn't think for a second that he'll actually go back to bed if Evie says she doesn't want to hear.

Jacob kicks at Evie until she moves reluctantly to one side of the bed, and then he wriggles under the blankets next to her. His fingers and toes are cold when he hugs her. "Okay, Jacob," Evie says. "What did you dream about?"

"Puppy," Jacob says. "Big, furry puppy."

"Doesn't sound very funny," Evie says.

"He was a shiny puppy," Jacob says, and he giggles. "Then he licked me and it _tickled_ , and then he went inside me and I was a shiny puppy too."

"You'd love being a puppy," Evie says.

"Yea," Jacob says. "Would you still love me if I was a shiny puppy?"

"I'd love you even if you were a stinky piggy," Evie says. "As long as you were still my brother."

"Grandma says I have to be," Jacob says. "Even if I don't wanna."

"But you _do_ wanna," Evie says. "Right?"

"Right," Jacob says. He hugs her and laughs, because he's always, _always_ happy. And then they sleep until morning, warm and safe and sound together. Outside, a wall of clouds drift away from the full moon they had been mostly obscuring. Moonlight drifts in through the window, and comes to rest on the twins where they sleep.

-/-

Connor.

Connor. His name is going to be Connor from now on. It's not a bad name. Not really. And he's going to live here from now on. He needs a new name, for a new home.

Connor.

It feels like a rock in his head. Strong. Something to hold onto while he tries to figure out all the new things here.

Starting with what he can see outside the window. Smoke in the sky, and buildings almost all enough to reach it. It's morning now, and the sun is slowly rising over the edge of buildings that look nothing like Connor has ever seen before. Connor doesn't even know the city's name, but he knows it's much bigger than him. And it's scary.

He doesn't hear his father walk in, but gradually he starts to sense someone in the room behind him. When Connor turns around, his father is just there. Connor feels a burst of nervous fear choke him—his mother is gone, and he doesn't quite understand why or how his father is here now. What he does know is that he's terrified of what will happen if his father changes his mind, and decides to go away. Connor doesn't know what he'd do in this big, scary city, all alone.

"Are you alright?" his father asks. "Did you sleep well?"

Connor nods yes, even though after they'd talked last night, Connor had gone to bed and dreamed of his mother.

"Do you need anything?"

This time, Connor shakes his head no. He's too overwhelmed to even know what to ask for.

"Are you sure?" his father prods.

Connor bites his lip, then points hesitantly out the window. "Where that?"

"It's London," his father says. "A great city."

"Big," Connor offers.

"Yes," his father agrees. "I'll have to show you some of it soon."

Connor isn't entirely sure about that. He's never seen _anything_ like London before.

"We can start with the house," his father says, holding out his hand to Connor. "Do you want a tour?"

Connor nods, and takes his father's hands. It's so much _bigger_ than his, but the bigness of his father doesn't scare him the way the bigness of the city does. It makes him feel safe. "Okay," he says, and they go to explore the house.

They walk through the whole house, and by the end of it Connor's legs are hurting and he's mostly feeling confused. The house seems too big for just two people, and it's…. cold. Not like a home.

They end their walk through the house by the big front doors, and Connor hesitates, dragging his feet a little. He wants to ask if this big, cold house is ever going to feel warm and safe like his village does (or did?), but he doesn't know how to ask.

His father looks down at him as Connor starts to drag his feet, and Connor looks up at him, and for a second the distance between the two of them seems too big to ever cross. But it only lasts a moment, before his father does something that proves to Connor that he loves him.

He crouches down right in front of Connor, and he smiles. "I know it's a lot to take in," he says. "And I know you're probably scared, and you must have a million questions you don't know how to ask."

Connor's heart speeds up, because that's _exactly_ how he feels.

"It's going to get easier," his father assures him. "It's going to get _better_. And I promise you, this house will be your home."

He understands. And Connor is so grateful for that, he jumps at his father, hugs him tight, and for the first time since coming to this strange, too-big house, Connor feels completely safe. His father hugs him back, and Connor smiles.

They're still hugging when the front door suddenly creaks open next to them.


	2. Chapter 2

Haytham has always been a fighter. Always, ever since he was ten years old and killed a man for the first time (right here, in this house, on the night his father died). So he reacts now as a fighter, shepherding Connor into place behind him and turning to face the door, weapons not drawn but ready.

And then the door swings fully open, and Haytham is face to face with an elderly man, bent over from age and deeply wrinkled, who looks just as surprised to see Haytham and Connor as they are to see him. He looks at least eighty years old, and doesn't immediately strike Haytham as a threat. Still, it's best to be cautious.

"What are you doing here?" Haytham asks.

The old man draws himself up, puffing up his skinny chest as much as seems physically possible. "I am the house's _caretaker_ ," he says, in a tone that implies he has absolutely every right to be here. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"This is my home," Haytham says, and then—as the old man seems ready to argue the point—he goes on, "Not legally, of course. Title passed out of my family's name many years ago."

"Then you have _no_ right to be here," the old man says, and while a part of Haytham recognizes the man is simply doing his job, another part of him flares with anger (this is his _home_ ).

"Who is it that pays you?" Haytham asks.

"None of your _business_ ," the old man snaps. Haytham fights back the urge to sneer at him. There's something about the man's tone, the way he always seems to emphasize the wrong word when he speaks, that just sets his teeth on edge.

"I think it is my business," he says. "But I understand that you have a job to do, and loyalty to one's employers is certainly an admirable trait. So I have a proposal for you."

"And why should I listen to _anything_ you have to—"

"Just go," Haytham says, talking right over the old man. "And tell your master that Haytham Kenway would like a word with him."

"Who?" the old man asks.

"He'll know," Haytham says. "If he has any interest at all in this house, he'll know my name."

The old man gives Haytham what he must surely imagine is a withering glare, but Haytham has seen too many truly terrifying things in his time to even notice the look. He smiles back, and the old man leaves. Quickly.

"Trouble?" Connor asks, and Haytham makes an effort to smile as he looks down at him.

"No," he says. "We aren't in any trouble. We are exactly where we are supposed to be." And Connor clings to him more tightly, so that Haytham can feel him nod his head against his arm.

Haytham hasn't eaten since their arrival the night before, and he's fairly sure Connor hasn't either. Not unless he's been sneaking into the kitchen and stealing food, at any rate. So he suggests heading into the kitchen and digging through the cabinets, and Connor agrees, with more enthusiasm than he has shown for anything since their arrival. They spend a solid two hours there, mostly because Connor has no memories of any English foods—everything they find is a new experience for him, and Haytham is absurdly, disproportionately happy by how delighted Connor is with each new taste.

And then the front door creaks open for a second time, and this time Haytham leaves Connor in the kitchen while he goes to investigate. He's half expecting the caretaker again, and is pleasantly surprised to see a different man standing there. Younger, with an expression on his face that is sharply intelligent. The Templar insignia graces his clothing in three different places.

"My man tells me there's someone squatting in this old house," he says. "Calling themselves Haytham Kenway. Only that can't be true, because Haytham Kenway is dead."

"I suppose I was," Haytham says. "Clearly, I've recovered."

"I don't think there's anything clear about it. Who are you, truly?"

"Haytham Kenway," Haytham says, with a calm he does not really feel. "And now that I've given you my name twice, perhaps you will be good enough to give me your own in return."

The man laughs—startled more than amused—and some of his self assured veneer slips a little. Haytham sees then that he is nervous, not quite sure how to proceed. He is very young, mid-twenties at best, no matter how hard he may be trying to seem older. "Crawford Starrick," he says.

"Starrick," Haytham repeats. "Your family has been in the Order for quite a while, I imagine? I knew a Rupert Starrick once."

"An ancestor of mine," Starrick says. "A great-great-grandfather, the first man in my family to join the Templars." He rallies quickly. "But anyone could have looked my name up. My family tree is hardly a national secret."

"I suppose they could," Haytham says. "So ask me anything else you want to. I will prove to you that I am who I say I am."

Starrick nods, and the questioning begins.

-/-

Crawford Starrick has been in charge of the Templar forces in London for all of one month. One, _single_ month. It's supposed to be an exercise in humility—no one's really expecting him to gain control of the city. It's been many years since either Templars or Assassins had total power here, and when Starrick had gotten the assignment to consolidate Templar power here, he'd known it was supposed to be an impossible task.

He fully intends to do it anyway. Whoever controls London controls all of the British Empire, and he who controls the Empire controls the world. Or all the parts of the world that matter, in any case. Starrick intends to be the man that gives that control to the Templars.

And now a long dead Templar grandmaster has appeared out of nowhere. Starrick does not quite know yet what that will do for the careful plans he is just now beginning to set in motion. But he is hopeful.

By the time the conversation ends, Starrick has been convinced that the man in front of him is truly Haytham Kenway. He's not quite sure how or why (Haytham firmly refuses to explain what had happened between his death and his arrival here, and Starrick is content to wait the matter out for now). Just knowing that there is a grand master in the city—a competent, intelligent one, by all accounts—is enough for today.

"Alright," Starrick says at last. "You've convinced me."

Haytham smiles, and there's something about that smile that sends shivers down Starrick's spine. _How is this man even here_? How does he exist, right now? He is impossible and unknown and possibly even dangerous. And yet, Starrick is fascinated.

"You may have full access to the Order's affairs in London, of course," Starrick goes on. "And the house."

Haytham inclines his head, just slightly, a gesture somewhere between acknowledgment and thanks. "And in return?" he asks. "I'm sure there is something you would ask of me."

"You're a Templar," Starrick says. He strives to match Haytham's tone of calm control, and utterly fails. His voice shakes like a schoolboy's. "This city is desperately in need of a guiding hand."

"Of course," Haytham says. "And I…"

But then he trails off. At first, Starrick doesn't understand why, and then he realizes suddenly that they are not alone in the room. There is a boy standing in the doorway, scarcely more than a toddler, dirty and big eyed and nervous.

"My son," Haytham offers, in a tone that implies that this should explain everything. But Starrick is wondering whether this son had come back from the dead with Haytham, and if so why Haytham hasn't mentioned it, and if not where he had come from. But he doesn't press. Perhaps it is better to watch for now, and form his own conclusions. Haytham has gone to where his son still stands in the doorway, and now he looks back at Starrick. "This is not a conversation for young ears," he says. "I'll be back in a moment."

Starrick nods, and stays where he has been left. But as he listens to the sound of Haytham carrying his son upstairs, he finds himself thinking back on everything he's ever heard of the old Templar Grandmaster. And the one thing his mind keeps circling back to, over and over again, is that Haytham Kenway was said to have been killed by his own son.

Interesting.

-/-

Evie doesn't _like_ cooking, but she likes that Jacob won't go near the kitchens (he likes the food but not the work), so it's always just her and Grandma. And Evie's not so good at helping yet, but Grandma's always patient. She tells stories while she shows Evie what to do, and Evie hangs on every word. Grandma is really good at stories.

Today she's telling Evie about what her mum was like when she was Evie's age, and it's a _great_ story, Evie loves hearing about the parents she's never met, but Grandma stops in the middle to frown down at Evie and ask, "Where's your brother?"

"I dunno," Evie says.

Grandma sighs, and wipes her messy cooking hands off on her skirts. "Usually he's gotten into some kind of trouble by now," she says. "I worry when he's this quiet."

"Maybe he's napping," Evie says.

Grandma laughs. " _Our_ Jacob?" she says. "I practically have to tie him down at night to get him to sleep."

"He had bad dreams last night," Evie says. "Maybe he's tired."

"Well—" Grandma sighs. "Maybe. I'm sure we'll know soon enough if he decides to start making trouble."

Evie nods. Jacob is not a _quiet_ kind of trouble. He's always really, really loud.

So they go back to the cooking, and when that's done, Grandma lets Evie go while she cleans up the kitchen (and Evie will cook but she's _not_ going to clean up, not unless she has to). She's a little worried about Jacob, because Grandma's kind of right, Jacob should have made some kind of trouble by now. And he hasn't. Maybe he's sick.

Evie looks in their room—she looks under her bed and under Jacob's bed, just in case he's hiding. She looks in Grandma's room, even though Jacob knows he's not supposed to go in there, he always breaks stuff. Then she goes outside, and finds Jacob sitting on the back steps, looking up at the sky.

Evie thumps down next to him on the steps, and he rocks sideways and bumps her shoulder with his shoulder. She bumps him back.

"Look," Jacob says, and Evie follows his pointing finger until she sees the moon just starting to rise. It's late afternoon, not quite night, and it's only just barely dark enough to see the moon at all.

"What?" Evie asks. "Jacob, 's just the moon."

Jacob tilts his head sideways, and rests it on her shoulder. "It's nice," he says, and puts his hands over his chest where his heart is. "Nice in here."

Evie doesn't get it. She usually _doesn't_ get it, when it comes to Jacob. But she puts her arms around him and hugs him, and sits with him until it gets real dark and the moon is way up high. Then Jacob shivers abruptly. "I feel yucky," he says, and sticks out his tongue and makes a face.

"I _told_ Grandma you were sick," Evie says.

"Not sick…" Jacob shivers again. "Just don't feel good."

"You should go to bed if you're sick," Evie says.

"You're _bossy_."

"You're _silly_." Evie stands up and helps Jacob stand up too. He doesn't argue with her when she helps him climb the stairs to their room, or even when she bundles him into bed. Evie leaves him shivering in bed, and goes downstairs to tell Grandma that Jacob feels yucky.

Grandma goes up to check on him, but he's already asleep—she leaves him alone and comes back to Evie. They eat their dinner and then Grandma helps Evie practice the alphabet and then it's bedtime for Evie, too. When she goes upstairs, Evie finds that Jacob has moved from his bed to hers, and squished right up against the wall so that Evie will have enough room to sleep next to him. She changes to her nightclothes, and then gets in bed too. Hugs Jacob tight.

Her brother needs so much taking care of.

-/-

It's late when Evie jolts awake, a creepy, twisty, scary feeling of something changing that's not supposed to change. She shakes off her dreams and only then notices the whimpering. Jacob is squirming in bed next to her, kicking the blankets and making this really sad, whining noise. Evie cracks her eyes open to see what's wrong, and after a moment of squinting through the dark bedroom she sees the fur. It's growing on Jacob, all over Jacob, and Evie's so gob smacked by that, she doesn't notice the other stuff right away.

Jacob cries out, a noise that raises the hair on the back of Evie's neck, it's not the kind of noise people are supposed to make. He reaches for Evie's hand with fingers that can't quite grasp them at the moment, and Evie responds with a terrified noise of her own. She lunges across the bed and hugs Jacob tight, pulling him into her.

She's so wrapped around him that she feels it when he starts to change. He bends and cracks like he's breaking into pieces, and he's changing shape, he's smaller, and Evie is so scared she cries even though she's not the one that's changing. She's still crying when Jacob finally stops changing, and finally lies still in her arms.

Only he's not Jacob anymore, not really. Evie's lying in bed with a puppy (and she feels so _stupid_ , not taking Jacob seriously when he had his dream about turning into a shiny puppy). Jacob-puppy wedges himself right up close to Evie, and she hangs onto him tight until they both stop shaking.

Evie is scared of whatever's going to happen next, but she's still a normal girl like she's supposed to be, and Jacob's not a normal boy like _he's_ supposed to be. So she cuddles Jacob, and she tells him that everything's going to be okay (even though _what if it isn't_ ), and spends the rest of that long, long night crying on the inside because her brother is a puppy.

When the sun comes up the next morning, Jacob changes back. Evie hits him for scaring her, and then she hugs him for coming back.

"Didn't like it, Evie," Jacob complains. He's rubbing his face with his hands, like he's wiping tears off only not because they're both trying to pretend he's not crying. "Don't wanna do that again."

"You won't," Evie says.

Jacob frowns at her, and moves his hands down from his face to press against his chest. "Puppy's still in here," he says. "I can feel it."

Evie sighs. "Then we'll figure it out," she says. "We'll make you better, Jacob. Promise."


End file.
